


Made Me Witness

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6612166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is teaching himself Arabic.  It takes Aramis a few weeks to realize that’s what Porthos is doing.  (Coda fic for 2x03)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made Me Witness

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr for the prompt, "Every time Aramis doubts and questions the existence of his God he thinks about Porthos. And he believes again."
> 
> Went a little vague with the prompt, but I'm happy with how it turned out.

Porthos is teaching himself Arabic. It takes Aramis a few weeks to realize that’s what Porthos is doing. Between missions, usually when they are outside Paris and sitting around the fire, Porthos is stooped down low, squinting into the poor light at the little book he carries with him. It takes Aramis some time to learn that the book is a gift from Samara, likely now well into Morocco and starting her new life but left in memory now – a physical reminder of her smile cupped in Porthos’ hands. Aramis tells himself not to be jealous. He is, anyway. 

It isn’t until he glances over Porthos’ shoulder one night that he realizes that Porthos is squinting at a language that is distinctly not French. They’re no letters he can recognize, nothing Latinate about it. 

“Porthos?” he prompts, curious despite himself. He sits down beside Porthos, who looks up, flushed, and closes the book somewhat guiltily before giving Aramis a small, helpless smile. Aramis’ expression softens. He asks, “You were reading? Don’t let me interrupt you.”

Porthos shakes his head. “Still don’t really know much. But…”

He opens the book again, tilts it so that Aramis can see – marginalia, little notes written along the edges. He can recognize some Spanish but most of it is in French. A woman’s hand, light and looping. Samara’s, Aramis must assume. The spike of jealousy returns. 

“She translated some of the things for me. I wanted to see if I could do the rest on my own, but…” Porthos shrugs. “Learning a new language’s not easy. Especially when you can’t really spend too much time with it.” 

“Of course,” Aramis says, but finds himself scooting forward – closer towards him. “But if anyone can do it, it’d be you.”

Porthos’ mouth tilts into a small smile, eyes soft when he glances at Aramis. 

“Want me to read some to you?” he asks.

Aramis nods. “Please.” 

The words are soft as Porthos reads them. Aramis can only assume how beautiful it would sound in its original language, but he closes his eyes and listens, lets the sound of Porthos’ voice wash over him as he recites poems about God, about the world beyond their own. They are words he knows that don’t sit as firmly upon Porthos’ heart as they do Aramis – Porthos, in the end, never knew God as well – but Porthos makes it sound natural, beautiful, like he’s only ever known these words his entire life. Listening to Porthos’ voice is gentleness. Kindness. Perfection. 

It’s reassuring in a way that Aramis will never be able to admit to Porthos. Reassuring in a way that centers him. He reaches out – touches Porthos’ wrist, traces his fingers along the tendons of his wrists. Feels his pulse. He can hear the smile in Porthos’ voice as he recites – Aramis doesn’t have to open his eyes to hear it. 

Reassurance, then. A grounding, a centering. He is safe, he is balanced. He has nothing to fear.


End file.
